


Just a Dream

by griffindork93



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffindork93/pseuds/griffindork93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flying brooms, dragons, and people who can turn into animals don't exist, because magic isn't real. It was just a dream, wasn't it? Harry wakes up from a dream about bright green lights and receives a letter from Hogwarts. Magic is real after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. This is my first story in this fandom. There are days where I reread the thirty-fourth chapter and imagine the whole series was one fantastical dream imagined by a lonely boy locked in the cupboard under the stairs. I hope this story will be well received. 
> 
> Also, Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Not me.

Harry clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle a gasp. He did not want to wake his Uncle.

Thin shoulders heaving, he reached blindly above his head for the fraying string attached to his cupboard’s light bulb. With a faint click, dim light flood the cupboard under the stairs that served as his bedroom. The light flickered several times before staying lit.

No longer enclosed in darkness, it was easier for the boy to not think about his dream.

It was not the first time Harry had dreamed about the eerie green light, but he had never done it in such detail.

He had been older in his dream. Seventeen. And fighting against a man who called himself . . . Harry couldn’t remember. It was Vol something or other. His dream self had walked into a dark forest at a castle, voluntarily going to his death at the hands of that green light. He remembered that much at least.

Harry had encountered that green light before. It was before he had come to live with the Dursleys.

With a noiselessness developed from years of practice, the ten year old boy dressed, in clothes four times his size, and slipped out of the cupboard.

His relatives abhorred any reminders that they were forced to take in their freak of a nephew, so it was essential that Harry keep quiet. They put him out of the way, by giving him the tiny cupboard under the stairs as a bedroom and dressing him in his overweight cousin’s hand me downs.

The only times the Dursleys were glad to have him around was when there were chores that needed to be done.

His Uncle Vernon was the worst of them. The obese man was astonishingly observant when it came to his unwanted nephew. Harry never really had to do much of anything to draw the man’s ire. Simply being alive was enough to make him angry.

But that anger was nothing compared to his Uncle’s wrath when strange things happened around him. Harry couldn’t explain how these things would happen, but like the incident on Dudley’s birthday, Harry was to blame when weird things, like vanishing glasses for snake exhibits, occurred.      

Given Vernon’s proclivity for unlooping his belt when past his anger threshold, Harry tried to give his relatives what they wanted.

It was easier said than done, though. Dudley took perverse pleasure in taunting Harry about his lack of parents and generally doing everything in his power to get him in trouble. If Vernon had eagle eyes when it came to Harry’s misdeeds, he was blind as a bat when it concerned his own flesh and blood.

Silence was one of the key rules for surviving at Number Four Privet Drive. “Don’t ask questions,” his Aunt Petunia was always saying.

Other rules included staying out of his relatives’ way. Harry would love to achieve this, but his Aunt was always screaming for him to vacuum or weed the garden. Another was doing Dudley’s homework so he would pass school while at the same time making sure to do worse on his own assignments. Harry hated having to appear stupid in school where he was already teased for his baggy clothes and ugly round glasses. He actually liked cooking, so making all the meals for the entire family was enjoyable. Even if he wasn’t included, for Harry was only allowed to eat after Vernon and Dudley had had their fill. But he had become rather skilled small bites while he was preparing the food.

Some days, the tiny portions he stole were the only times he’d eat that day. Harry secreted away food to his cupboard whenever possible, but only when he knew the Dursleys wouldn’t notice it was missing.

The brunette hurried into the kitchen. He pulled down three frying pans hanging on the rack above the oven and set them on the range, twisting the nobs all the way to the left to ignite the flames and get them heating. He glanced wistfully at the microwave on the counter and grabbed a fourth frying pan. Dudley had thrown a massive fit the last time Harry had served bacon that had been nuked. On that occasion, his fat cousin had overturned the table. Vernon had blistered his hands in hot oil in retaliation and snarled an order to never put their bacon in the microwave again. He had to cook breakfast again with his hands burnt.                    

He started some oil in the first pan for sausages, filled a filter with Uncle Vernon’s plain coffee and let that start brewing, then turned to the refrigerator to grab eggs and milk to start the batter coating bread for French toast. The rest of the eggs he cracked into a second pan to make scrambled eggs.

Harry added an excessive amount of cinnamon to his egg and milk mixture and began soaking and frying the French toast. He whirled about the kitchen, setting the table with plates and utensils, piling on food as it finished cooking. He finally started on the bacon when the rest of breakfast was almost done, knowing that the scent of sizzling bacon would wake his uncle and cousin, both of which would be very unhappy if there was no food on their plates when they dragged themselves downstairs.

He was just sliding several slices of crispy bacon onto his uncle’s loaded plate when the man stomped into the room. “Where’s my coffee, boy?” he snapped.

“Coming, Uncle Vernon,” answered Harry.

“Well, hurry up, then!”

Dudley and Aunt Petunia soon made their way down, the former sitting heavily in his chair and shoving forkfuls of sausages drenched in ketchup and peanut butter into his mouth.

Petunia looked distastefully down her nose at him. “There’s a rack of lamb on the bottom shelf for dinner,” she sniffed. It was a wonder to Harry that both his cousin and uncle hadn’t suffered a heart attack yet.

“Don’t just stand there, boy. Go fetch the mail.”

‘I’m not a bloody dog,’ Harry thought. There was a small stack of letters on the doormat and he looked through them curiously.

It was mostly bills and a post card from Uncle Vernon’s horrible sister, except for the last letter. That one was for him.

Green eyes widened, stunned. He had never received a letter in is life. Who would be writing to him?

_Mr. H. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

Harry stared down at the letter in his hands, feeling a sense of déjà vu. This letter was familiar. He had seen it before but he couldn’t place where.

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing? Checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry’s head snapped up in surprise. This was exactly how his dream had started, with him receiving a letter from a school for magic.

“Hogwarts,” he recalled in a whisper, eyes locked on the crest sealing the letter. Could it be real? Did magic really exist? And he was a wizard?

The boy startled as his uncle yelled once more. He scurried back into the kitchen, mail clenched tightly in one hand. On the way, he slid his letter through the slats of the metal grate on his cupboard door.

The rest of the day, his mind was consumed with thoughts of that letter. He didn’t think it could be real. It had to be a hoax, didn’t it? Because magic wasn’t real. It was just a dream.

But a small part of Harry wanted it to be true, because his dream was full of adventure and excitement and attending a school for magic meant getting away from the Dursleys.

* * *

 

Later, in the safety of his bedroom after his relatives had retired for the night, Harry carefully broke the seal and removed the pages inside.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore ( _Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Amazement filled Harry. His dream was becoming reality. The proof was in his hands; an acceptance letter to a school for magic. He was a wizard.

He quickly read through the list of school supplies, taking note of the textbooks and other equipment he would need. Then he turned the supply list over so he could write on the reverse side. Harry needed to make a list of everything he could remember from his dream.

In the end, it wasn’t much. The list read:

-red and gold tie  
-a mirror with an unintelligible inscription  
-a red stone  
-some blonde git that dressed like a ponce  
-snakes  
-black hooded creatures that reminded him of Ringwraiths from the Lord of the Rings series he had read  
-a portkey (whatever the hell that was)  
-lots of dragons  
-a creepy graveyard  
-a secret army of students  
-the words _I must not tell lies_  
-a potions book  
-two identical lockets  
-camping  
-that bright green light speeding towards him

It wasn’t a lot of detail. Harry knew he had dreamt of more than the fifteen items on his list, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember any more than that. He wished he could remember more, because the majority of his list appeared to be trivial and inconsequential details. The only two things that concerned him was the possibility of encountering dragons and the green light that was a foremost presence in a lot of his dreams.

He supposed the rest of the list would make sense in context.

His only problem right now was getting his hands on an owl so he could reply, and ask for assistance in getting his school things. There certainly wasn’t any place in London where he could buy cauldrons and wands.

* * *

 

Harry woke early the next morning, before the sun. He was surprised to find three more letters addressed to him on the doormat, identical to the one he had opened yesterday. Would Hogwarts continue to send letters until he sent them confirmation?

He dropped the letters and hurriedly unbolted the door. If there were more letters here, there must have been owls that delivered them. He hoped to catch one still outside Number 4.

His hunch was right. On the street sign reading Privet Drive perched a tawny owl. Yellow eyes pierced, full of intelligence. Feeling foolish, but unable to think of any way to know if this owl was a post owl, Harry asked, “Are you from Hogwarts?”

Large eyes blinked at him, and the owl hooted. Harry took that as a yes. “Would you deliver a letter for me?”

The owl hooted again. Harry thanked the bird as he ran back to his cupboard to draft a letter to Professor McGonagall.

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_

_I would very much like to attend Hogwarts. I have never heard of magic before and was wondering if it would be possible for you to send directions to the store where I can find the items on the supply list?_

_Thank you,_

_Harry Potter_

Harry reread it, hoping it sounded professional and not like a little kid was writing it. He took the letter to the owl, which clutched it in its talons, and gave it instructions to give it to Professor McGonagall. The bird gave one last hoot of acknowledgement and took flight.

The brunette watch as the owl soared away, eyes not leaving its figure until the bird was a dark speck in the sky. The arrival of the milkman, collecting the empty milk bottles and dropping off filled ones, meant Harry had to get started on breakfast.

* * *

 

Thousands of miles away from Surrey, hidden in the hills of Scotland, stood a magnificent castle. It was empty at the moment, of bustling students, but the professors remained during the summer months.

Professor Minerva McGonagall frowned, lips thinning, as she read the short letter she had just received. As Deputy Headmistress, sending out the Hogwarts letters was her responsibility. She made personal visits to the potential Muggle-born student in order to explain to their parents and demonstrate a little magic so they did not think the letter to be a trick.

She had known Harry Potter lived with his Muggle relatives, having been present on Privet Drive the regretful night when Albus Dumbledore placed him in their care. Albus had written a letter, tucked into Harry’s blanket, so that Lily’s sister could explain the truth when it came time for the boy to attend Hogwarts.

Evidently, she had not done so. That bad feeling Minvera had had about the Dursleys returned. She had told Albus they were the worse sort of Muggles imaginable.

She stood briskly, donning an emerald green cloak. It was too late to be calling upon the Dursley household, but she could wait outside in her cat form until a more decent hour.

Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, could not come to school in September ignorant of who he was.


	2. Chapter 2

“Minerva! What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

Professor Minerva McGonagall stepped smoothly out of the fireplace, brushing soot off her cloak as she turned to face the owner of the house. The green flames, the only source of light in the room, faded as the magical fire died.

The Transfiguration professor withdrew her wand from the inner pocket of her robe. With a flick of her wrist light flooded the room. She slipped the piece of wood back into the folds of her cloak before addressing the other woman.

The usual hairnet that covered her grizzled gray hair was missing and her hair was more mussed and fly away looking than normal. Minerva assumed the woman had dashed out of bed to see who was coming through her Floo. It also explained the tartan slippers on her feet.

If it was possible, Minerva would have Apparated to Number 4 Privet Drive, but the protective wards around Harry’s residence prevented Apparition. There were certainly other methods of travel, but none that would have gotten her to her destination as quickly. So Minerva took her next best option, Flooing to the house of Arabella Figg, which was only a few streets away from Privet Drive.

“Good evening, Arabella. I came to check on Mr. Potter.”

“C-ch-check on young Harry? What for? I assure you, the boy’s perfectly fine,” Arabella said with a huff.

Minerva pursed her lips at the display of misplaced pride. Judging from the letter she had just received from the boy, she doubted Harry was as fine as Arabella proclaimed. The Dursleys had clearly not done as Dumbledore asked, informing their nephew of his magical heritage. Added to what she had personally seen of them the day she and Albus Dumbledore had left him on the doorstep as a baby, a decision Minerva had been vehemently against but could not convince Albus otherwise, she did not believe the Dursleys had treated Harry as their son like Albus had asked of them.

But Minerva soothed the Squib’s ruffled feathers, stating that she was sure Harry was fine and that she wished to speak to the boy personally about his admittance to Hogwarts because there was only so much his relatives, as Muggles, could tell him about the wizarding world.

Arabella’s eyes shined with understanding, accepting Minerva’s explanation at face value. “Alright then, Professor. Do you need me to show you the way?”

“That will not be necessary, Arabella. I am sorry to have disturbed you so late.”

Arabella’s hair flew from side to side as she shook her head. “Oh, it’s not a problem at all. Not at all.”

“I will see myself out. I apologize for troubling you as such a late hour.” With that said, Minerva walked briskly out of the living, decked out with Afghans and pictures of all the cats she bred, and into the cool night air.

Down Wisteria Walk and through an alley of Magnolia Crescent put her on Magnolia Road, which connected directly to Privet Drive, she passed by one identical tan bricked house after another. Plain, boring houses that showed no hint of imagination or individualization.

Minerva transformed into her Animagus form, a grey Tabby cat with a pattern of darker grey stripes. As a feline, she slinked through the shadows, edging around the pools of light from the lamp posts, and nimbly leapt atop the low garden wall in front of Number 4.

She settled herself comfortably, prepared for a long night of watching over the Dursley residence once more. The night passed quietly, and when the sun’s first rays, varying shades of orange, yellow, red, raced across the sky, turning the dark purple to increasingly lighter shades of blue, Minerva jumped from her place on the stone wall, transforming as she went, and land on two human feet.

Knuckles rapped on the dark wooden door. It was rather early to be receiving calls, but Minerva knew, from a previous stint watching the same house, that Mr. Dursley started his day extremely early. And it was rather urgent that she corrected this situation.

Minerva blinked in surprise at the untidy boy, messy hair and baggy, overlarge clothes, who opened the door, two pairs of green eyes clashing. Unconsciously, her eyes drifted up to the infamous scar on his forehead.

“Can I help you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Potter. May I come in?” she questioned, forgiving the boy for gawking.

* * *

Harry didn’t want to get out of bed that morning, and seeing how his Aunt had locked him in his cupboard, meaning he was off the hook for preparing breakfast, the idea of just sleeping really appealed to him.

It was actually a mercy on his Aunt’s part, after the thrashing her husband had given him the day before. Harry, so preoccupied with sending his letter to Professor McGonagall, had gotten a late start on breakfast, which meant Uncle Vernon would be late to work. Aunt Petunia had swung a heavy cast iron pan at him. Normally, Harry would have ducked out of the way. This time he couldn’t because she had done it in view of his uncle. He knew from experience that his uncle’s punishment would be worse than anything Petunia dished out.

Thin as she was, the swing had no weight behind it. It knocked Harry off balance, sending him to his hands and knees on the tiled floor, and would probably leave behind a good sized bump, but that was all. He hadn’t burst any blood vessels in his eyes, gotten double vision, or been knocked unconscious, so all in all, Harry thought he had gotten off lightly.

Then Uncle Vernon had seen the other Hogwarts letters left on the doormat as he rushed out the door. He couldn’t do anything to Harry at the time, but when he returned home from work Harry received his worst ever whipping.  

His back still burned. He could feel every welt the belt left behind as the leather strap sliced into his back. Then he had been tossed in his cupboard, with no dinner of course. The blood had long since dried, welding his shirt to his skin, and it would bleed anew when removed the rags he had to wear.

But Harry was used to the pain. Uncle Vernon took the belt to him any time something “freaky,” which the almost eleven year old now knew to be his magic, happened. It certainly hurt more this time, since the reptile house incident was only last weekend.

But his happy bubble burst at the sound of someone knocking on the door. At first, he considered ignoring it. It was too early for the post man, and he only ever knocked when he delivered a package, which the Dursleys rarely ever got. Aunt Petunia didn’t trust mail order service, preferring to go out and buy her present for her precious Dinky Diddydums and not having to wait for it to arrive all banged up from poor handling.

And it couldn’t be anybody on Privet Drive or the surrounding streets because, by some unwritten rule of propriety, everybody minded their own business ten o’clock.

But then the person knocked again, more forcefully this time, so Harry dragged himself into a sitting position, wincing as the movement stretched the skin on his back. Feeling around on the shelves for a mini screwdriver he had secreted away, Harry made shoved it where the grate fitted into the door and wiggled.

On one of the rare occasions the Dursleys left him alone in the house and not with batty Mrs. Figg when they went out, and not locked in his cupboard under the stairs, Harry had borrowed his Aunt’s nail filer so that he could smooth the thread of the screws holding the grate in place. With the ridge sanded down partly, the screws stayed in place well enough to convince the Dursleys that it hadn’t been tampered with.

But the smooth strip on each screw meant their strength was weakened, so the metal grate popped out of place with little effort and swung down. Harry reached an arm through. He found the lock easily, lifting the pin up and sliding it back. He pushed the cupboard door open wide enough for him to slip out.

He opened the door before the person on the other side could knock again. If they kept making a racket one of the Dursleys was bound to wake up. It was ridiculous that someone would be at the door at this hour.

It was a woman, who was startled to see him answer the door if the shock in her eyes was anything to go by. Harry’s first impression; she was not somebody he wanted to cross.

She was tall. Taller than Aunt Petunia and dressed in emerald green robes of all things which would have his Aunt screeching about how they were unnatural. It was the stern look on her face that prevented him from snapping about the earliness of her visit.

“Can I help you?” he asked nervously.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” the unnamed woman responded. “May I come in?”

He nodded dumbly. How had she known his name? He didn’t realize he was standing in her way until she arched one sharp eyebrow. He hurriedly stepped to the side and followed after her as she walked gracefully into the living room.

The Dursleys’ living room was exactly like the rest of the house. Sparkling clean from hours of labor on his part. The patterned upholstery of the furniture was gaudy and clashed with the curtains Aunt Petunia had him hang. She had only bought them because it was expected to have curtains in the living room. She was much too nosy to ever consider drawing them closed. The photographs of Dudley on the fireplace mantle flaunted their love for their son. If not for the personal touches, the Dursleys’ living room could have been a showroom.

The green clad woman settled into Uncle Vernon’s cushy armchair. Harry took a set opposite, feeling rather like the time he had been called into the principal’s office after being found on the roof of the school.

“My name is Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My subject is Transfiguration; a branch of magic that focuses on the alteration of the form or appearance of an object.”

Harry stared, clueless, as the now named Professor McGonagall finished her introduction speech. ‘Speaking of ridiculous,’ he thought amusedly, he couldn’t comprehend half the words she said.

He said the only thing he could. “You’re from Hogwarts?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter. You sent a letter asking for assistance. I thought it best to explain in person. If you would please fetch your Aunt and Uncle—“

“That won’t be necessary, Professor.”

Harry met her green eyes for a second time. The intelligence there was easy to see. Professor McGonagall was curious about his response but did not insist he go and wake his relatives.

“If you are certain.” Harry nodded empathetically. “Very well. Mr. Potter, as you have learned, you are a wizard. Hogwarts is the best establishment of magical learning in Great Britain. And like your parents before you, you have been offered at place at our school.”

“You knew my parents?” Harry hadn’t meant to interrupt, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to ask this woman about them. His Aunt and Uncle told him that his father was a no good lay about, a drunk, and that his mother was no better. But, if they were wizards like him. Well, Harry wouldn’t put it past his relatives to lie about his parents as another way to keep him from knowing about his magic.

At his softly asked question, Professor McGonagall’s eyes became misty. He could see the genuine affection in her eyes and hear it in her voice when she spoke of them. She had cared for them, deeply.

“Aye, Mr. Potter, I did.” The pain that saturated her voice made the Scottish accent distinguishable. “Two of the greatest students I taught. Your mother was a fabulous witch. Filius was particularly delighted with her Charms work, although Lily was a magnificent student all around. Potions was another favorite of hers. As for your father,” her voice took on an exasperated tone, “never had I met such a troublemaker. James and his band of hooligans wreaked absolute havoc during their seven years. But he had talent. He took to Transfiguration as well as he took to a broom. They were Head Boy and Head Girl in their seventh year.

“You look just like James. He had the same untidy hair. Never could get it to lay flat. Not that he cared, mind you. He was always running a hand through it. But your eyes are all Lily’s.”

A tender smile appeared on Professor McGonagall’s face as she talked about his parents. For his part, Harry just smiled; beyond happy to learn about his parents, whose names’ he hadn’t even known.  

“There is something I must tell you, Mr. Potter. You are no ordinary wizard. You’re the Boy-Who-Lived: defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You’re famous, Mr. Potter.”

He didn’t like the look in her eyes when she said that. The admiration and respect mixed with grief. Being famous was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to be just him, just Harry. He knew that was an impossible wish though. The Transfiguration professor’s words had triggered his memory. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was what they called Voldemort because they were too terrified to use his actual name.

Voldemort was the man he had been fighting in his dream. He was responsible for the green light in the forest.

His brain hurt from trying to put the pieces together. Even if magic was real, his dream was just that. A dream. It shouldn’t mean anything. But so far it appeared to be coming true. Did that mean everything he had dreamed would come to pass? Harry desperately wished he could recall more of it.

First, however, he needed conformation that his dream was true.

“Who’s He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? How did I beat him? I was just a baby.”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “It’s a dread tale. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wanted to kill you, so Lily and James went into hiding.”

“Kill me? Why?” Harry was baffled. Who tried to kill a baby?

“No one knows why, Mr. Potter. That Halloween night he found you. Your mother and father died to protect you. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named then turned his Killing Curse on you. But you survived and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named disappeared.”

The Killing Curse must have been the green light he kept seeing in his dream. Not just the one that didn’t make sense. Ever since Harry could remember, he had dreamt about a green flash of light and a cold, chilling laugh. The laugh he couldn’t explain, but Aunt Petunia had snapped at him once, when he asked what had happened to his parents that they died in a car crash, so Harry had attributed the green light to a traffic light.

Now he just needed to know if it really was Voldemort she was talking about. “Who was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” the boy pressed.

Professor McGonagall looked at him uncomfortably. “We do not say his name.”

“Please, Professor. I need to know,” begged Harry.

“Voldemort,” was the whispered answer.

The brunette slumped back into the couch, restraining the urge to laugh hysterically. It was true. All of it was true. He had somehow managed to dream the future and he was going to die. Murdered by the man who had killed his parents, a man who he had supposedly already killed.

Maybe he shouldn’t go to Hogwarts. If he never went to Hogwarts, he wouldn’t encounter Voldemort. Sure, life with the Dursleys wasn’t perfect. In fact, it was downright unpleasant, but living with his awful relatives was better than being dead, wasn’t it?

“What the devil is going on here, boy? Who is this . . . this . . . _freak_ you’ve let into our home?”

Harry jumped off the couch like it had suddenly been set ablaze. His Uncle sounded angrier than he had yesterday, a feat Harry hadn’t thought possible. Professor McGonagall was the more likely source of Vernon’s rage, even though he wasn’t supposed to be sitting on the couch.

Professor McGonagall stood to her full height of five foot nine, straightening her robes as she did. “You must be Mr. Dursley. I’ve come to escort young Mr. Potter here to Diagon Alley to get his school supplies.”

“No!” Uncle Vernon shouted, spittle flying. “I won’t have it! He’s not going to that crackpot school of yours. He’s attending Stonewall.”

The air around the stern woman crackled. “You have no choice in the matter. It is Mr. Potter’s decision if he wishes to attend. Which would you prefer? Stonewall or Hogwarts?”

It was a no-brainer. Even if going to Hogwarts meant he would die in the future, there were things in the magical world he couldn’t have if he stayed at the Dursleys. Friends of his own. Knowledge of his parents. Two of the things he had craved the most.

Harry felt they were worth whatever the future had in store for him. Besides, maybe, since he had dreamt of it, he could change it.

He gave Professor McGonagall his answer, ignoring how his uncle turned purple with rage. Harry followed her out the door and didn’t look back. He didn’t belong in the Muggle world. He belonged at Hogwarts, which was more his home than the Dursleys could ever be.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry had to half jog to keep up with the brisk pace Professor McGonagall set. He found himself with a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but without the courage to voice them. This stern woman was so different from the groundskeeper that had rescued him from the Dursleys stupidity in his dream. He had been a large man, and at first his height and size was off putting for Harry, but the man had been so friendly that Harry didn’t have any trouble conversing with him.

It was the exact opposite with Professor McGonagall. Her appearance, greying black hair pulled back in a severe bun, immaculate dress, and thin lips exuded authority, demanding respect and obedience. In his dream, he had been in Gryffindor, making her his head of house.

Despite that, he felt like he was being escorted to the principal’s office. He wanted to ask her where they were going and what else could she tell him about his parents. The question he was most desperate to ask, however, was if wizards were capable of seeing the future.

He was well aware of the field of Divination, and while Trelawney could make prophecies, Harry’s time in her class left him with little confidence in his dream. Trelawney’s idea of predicting the future from dreams did not resemble his. The Divination’s professor’s version was extremely abstract and everything seemed to be an omen of his death or unhappiness. He honestly felt like he had lived those seven years in his dream.

But the dream being real was the only explanation he had for knowing Voldemort’s name when he had never heard it before.

When McGonagall had told him the story of his parents’ deaths and Voldemort’s defeat, Harry had known before she had whispered Voldemort’s name that he was the snake-like man in his dream. He needed to know if this was something all wizards could do, to know if he could trust the dream or vision or whatever it was.

It couldn’t be just a dream. Harry used to dream of distant relatives that came and took him away from the Dursleys. Not vivid worlds of magic in which he had to fight the darkest wizard to ever exist. And that was what stuck with Harry. The details. With time to think about it and rehash it, Harry had sorted through seven years of life experiences, which was simply impossible to dream up. It had been too detailed to be a normal dream. It had to be something more.

Harry’s gut instinct told him to believe it was real. And his instincts were often right in his dream.

Though, if it was real, Harry’s future was rather unfortunate. What little he had remembered immediately was dangerous and terrifying, culminating in his death by that green light. There were more scary and trying moments in the rest of the dream, but it was also full of friendship, comradery, joy, adventure, family and love. If that was what he had to look forward to, he wanted to know for certain.

The topic was not easy to broach. Harry felt uneasy following the professor, like he was not allowed to talk unless she gave him permission.

He wrenched his eyes from her back, realizing with a start that the green clad woman was following the route to batty Mrs. Figg’s house. He had been forced to stay at her house several times when the Dursleys didn’t want to bring him along. It was mind numbing. The old woman made him look at pictures of every cat she had ever owned while feeding him a cake that tasted like she had baked it years ago.

“Mrs. Figg is a witch?” he blurted. That was a reaction she would expect, right?

Professor McGonagall’s quick pace slowed enough that Harry could walk beside her. She looked down at him with a slight frown. Harry wondered if he was wrong. Just because Mrs. Figg’s house was in this direction didn’t mean that was their destination.

He started to apologize, for speaking out of turn or for being wrong. He wasn’t sure which.

“Mrs. Figg is what we call a Squib. That is to say, a person born to a magical family that is unable to use magic.” The professor clarified.

“That can happen?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter. The reverse is true as well. There are magical children born to non-magical, Muggle, parents. They are referred to as Muggle-borns. Your mother was one. Your father on the other hand, was from a recognized Pure-blood family.”

“What does that make me?” he asked.

“Half-blood,” Professor McGonagall answered.

 Harry nodded, as there wasn’t much else he could do with that answer.

“Now come along,” she said briskly, returning to her fast pace. “Mrs. Figg was kind enough to loan us the use of her fireplace.”

Harry resumed jogging, wondering why on earth they needed a fireplace. He wasn’t sure he was going to like the answer. He hoped it wasn’t what he was thinking it was going to be.

* * *

He didn’t like. It was exactly what he was afraid of. Traveling by Floo was awful. He had ash in his mouth, his face was covered in soot, and Harry was so dizzy the area around him was just a blur of colors and shapes. It was the worst mode of transportation he had ever heard of, and he didn’t remember what to expect quick enough to know to keep his elbows tucked in, so he was certain they’d be sporting bruises in an hour or so.

He recognized the Leaky Cauldron immediately, automatically shifting to hide himself a little behind his Transfiguration’s professor. He was immensely thankful that it was Professor McGonagall escorting him to Diagon Alley and not Hagrid, because her no nonsense attitude meant he did not get swarmed by every witch and wizard in the pub hoping to shake his hand. She directed him straight to the brick wall that acted as the barrier between the pub and the alley, instructing him to memorize the correct brick to tap to open the wall, three up and two across from the trash bin.  Harry idly wondered if there was a Permanent Sticking charm on the can to ensure that the brick would always be findable.

His first glimpse of Diagon Alley was just as breath taking as it was in his dream. The young wizard wanted nothing more than to enter every shop and thoroughly explore the alley, which he had partially tackled the summer before his third year. But Professor McGonagall was already steering him down the cobblestone street by a hand on his shoulder, proclaiming Gringotts to be their first destination.

The wizarding bank was located on the north side in the middle of the alley. It was an imposing snow-white multistoried marble building that towered over the neighboring shops. Professor McGonagall guided him up the steps and through the burnished bronze doors.

Once in the small entrance hall, Harry couldn’t hold back a grin at the sight of the warning engraved on the next set of doors, silver this time.

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

He knew all too well what the goblins had hidden in the bowels of their bank. The goblins were vicious and took their security seriously. It was another thing to add to his list of achievements. A successive robbery of the most secure building in the world that ended with him, Hermione and Ron escaping on the back of a dragon.

McGonagall smiled faintly at the stupid grin on his face, probably assuming that he was amazed by the banks or found the goblins interesting. That probably would have been true had he not known what to expect upon returning to the wizarding world.

Harry’s visit to his vault was unremarkable without the secret stop at Vault 713 to collect the Sorcerer’s Stone. He pretended to listen as the professor explained wizarding currency and broke down the conversion between Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons, scooped some into a bag provided by Griphook, whom he really wanted to strangle for his future actions.

Ever practical, McGonagall lead him up the east end of Diagon Alley. She pointed to the Magical Menagerie but Harry was uninterested.

“I want an owl,” he said firmly.

She raised a brow at his strong assertion but did not object. The pair swept straight down the street to Ollivander’s. They passed Gambol and Japes, a notorious wizarding joke shop. McGonagall shot him a thinly veiled look of expectation that he was more than happy to shatter. Even if he liked pranks like his father had, Gambol and Japes could not compare to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

Ollivander’s wand shop was right at the end of Diagon Alley. The peeling gold letters over the door of the shop read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. The shop's display consists of a solitary wand lying on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. Anxious, he latched onto his guide’s wrist and pulled her along and she allowed it. Harry could hardly wait to hold his faithful holly wand again.

He still experienced a tingle when he stepped through the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Potter,” said a soft voice behind one of the many stacks of wands. Pale eyed and white haired, Ollivander came to stand before the young boy. No matter how many times he had met the wand maker, his silvery eyes unnerved him.

“Fir and dragon heartstring, nine and a half inches, stiff. An excellent wand for Transfiguration, wouldn’t you agree, Professor McGonagall?”

“I would, indeed, Mr. Ollivander.”

He turned his piercing gaze on his newest customer. “I was expecting you, Mr. Potter.” Ollivander went on to regal Harry with precise descriptions of his parents’ first wands. Harry caught the use of the word first, wondering if his mother might have broken her wand during the school year much like Ron and Neville had.

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. But I know just the wand for you.”

The old man retreated into the dimly lit rows of wands as his tape measure flitted about taking cursory measurements, presenting a very familiar wand a minute later.

Harry gaped when Ollivander handed him his wand on the first try. He couldn’t remember how many wands he had gone through, but it had felt like half the store at the time. 

“It’s an unusual combination. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Give it a wave.” Ollivander fixed him with a knowing stare. Hand shaking, Harry took it from the man’s outstretched hand, feeling the warmth flood his fingers and watching as it released red and gold sparks. Even his wand was a Gryffindor it seemed.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter,” he said as Professor McGonagall watched on curiously. “Every single one. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry’s ears pounded as, unnoticed to the two males in the room, McGonagall gave a little gasp. If possible, Ollivander’s words were heavier the second time around now that he understood the relationship between his and his nemesis’s wand.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew,” the older wizard continued. “Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. . . . I expect great things from you, Mr. Potter.”

This time it was Harry that gasped. Ollivander knew! It wasn’t all in his head. It wasn’t simply a dream. It was real. He was bursting to ask how he knew, but McGonagall ushered him out of the shop.

The rest of his trip, up until Eeylops Owl Emporium, went by in a daze. Seeing as he was doing his school shopping a week earlier, there was no run in with Draco Malfoy at Madam Malkin’s. Professor McGonagall’s advice was invaluable. In each store they visited, she pointed out the most durable parchment, also suggesting that he invest in drying sand so that he did not have to waste time waiting for his assignments to dry, the telescope recommended by Professor Sinistra, and the best kind of dragon hide gloves, Swedish Short Snout.

Inside the Apothecary, she cautioned him about his behavior in his potions class, subtly hinting the Snape would be unfair in his treatment of him. There was nothing Harry could do for that except try to be a serious, if not dedicated, potions student this time around.

Harry had to hide the tears that threatened to overflow when he laid eyes on Hedwig’s snowy white form at Eeylops. With a watery voice he declared that she was the owl he wanted and marched over to the counter to pay for her. His beloved friend hooted consolingly on his shoulder and proceeded to preen his dark hair.

The last stop was Flourish and Blotts to pick up a copy of his required textbooks. He found the perfect opportunity to ask about his dream when he passed by _Unfogging the Future_ by Cassandra Vablatsky. Harry knew his professor didn’t hold much stock in the field of Divination, but he hoped he would get a different answer than he had in third year since he wasn’t coming into the woman’s class depressed that Trelawney had predicted his death.

“Professor McGonagall, is it possible to dream of future events?” he asked in a carefully controlled tone, so that he sounded more curious than probing.

His professor’s lips thinned, her nostrils flared, and Harry knew he wasn’t going to get an unbiased answer. “Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of magic. Unless one it gifted with the Sight, it is a lot of guesswork. It is a class offered to third year students at Hogwarts, but unless you actually have some ability in the field I would not recommend it.

“Most student’s see the class as an easy grade. I imagine they are disillusioned of that idea come time for their O.W.L.s. It’s rare that students choose to continue with Divination after their fifth year.” the austere woman finished.

“How can you tell if you have the gift?”

McGonagall’s whole face sharpened as she studied him, confused to why he was so insistent on this topic. “Generally, such an ability runs in a family, Mr. Potter. And it has never been seen in yours to my knowledge.”

The last line gave Harry a small amount of comfort. He didn’t imagine McGonagall, being a half-blood herself, paid too much attention to what magical abilities ran in which families. There was a chance that one of his Potter or Black ancestors was capable of foreseeing the future.

He let the matter fall, thinking that he would ask Hermione. Without Trelawney’s ‘mystical voice,’ room full of incense, and constant omens of death coloring her view, the knowledge hungry girl would be very interesting and search like a dog looking for a bone to find an answer.

At the end of the day, Harry had everything on the list. McGonagall had kept up a running commentary the whole excursion about what to expect from each class and professor. He felt better prepared for school, silently vowing to not just skate through the middle. His lack of knowledge left him woefully unprepared during his year hunting down Riddle’s horcruxes and dependent on Hermione. It had been his fault his truest friend had been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry was going to protect his friends, whatever the cost.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Back at the Dursleys, behind the safety of the locked door of the room his relatives had grudgingly given him, Harry carefully organized all his purchases and packed them into his trunk, leaving a set of plain black robes on top to change into once on the train.

Having McGonagall as his guide to the wizarding world this time around had several advantages.

To start with, the black haired boy would bet the contents of his trust vault that the Dursleys were more frightened of her than they had ever been of Hagrid. And the half-giant, standing well over eleven feet tall and with a long mane of shaggy black hair and a beard that covered most of his face, had made quite the impression literally knocking in the door to the hut on the rock.

Harry figured it was the no nonsense aura that radiated from McGonagall’s being. It was a weapon the woman had probably developed and fined tuned over many years she taught. It was probably perfect by the time the Marauders had made their debut.

With sharp words, tone glacier and eyes sharp as glass, the older woman had read his relatives the riot act, briskly informing them that Mr. Potter had obtained all the necessary items required by Hogwarts and that the Dursleys were to ensure their nephew made it to King’s Cross Station to catch the Hogwarts Express, which would depart promptly at eleven.

Professor McGonagall had also explained several details she had deemed pertinent to know before he was reintroduced to the magical world, that Hagrid as much as Harry loved him (he still considered the half-giant as his first friend even though they hadn’t met yet) either hadn’t thought about or couldn’t answer himself.

The Boy-Who-Lived’s story was the first thing she told him, calmly explaining that a dark wizard, whose name she only spoke because Harry pleaded that he deserved to know, had killed his parents and then turned his wand on baby Harry. He had survived, the first and only person to do so, and somehow got rid of Voldemort. Harry was curious to note that she referred to his as gone and not dead.

There was also her description of the four houses, which emphasized each founder’s good qualities. It was fair and impartial and unbiased in every way. She didn’t refer to Hufflepuff as “duffers” or claim every person ever sorted into Slytherin was a dark wizard. Similarly, McGonagall didn’t wax poetic about her house in attempt to convince him that he belonged in Gryffindor.

The mini lecture reminded Harry awfully of the speech she gave before leading the first years into the Great Hall, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she said the same thing every year and how long had it taken her to memorize it.

His last month at the Dursleys was the most peaceful one he had ever experienced, and that included the future summers he would be forced to return. Harry’s relatives were just as scared of McGonagall as first years were, and as a result, Aunt Petunia was quite civil when she asked her nephew to cook, please become Uncle Vernon’s most spoken word, and Dudley still ran out of any room he entered. But at least he didn’t have a pig’s tail this time.

But, for all the more detailed help Professor McGonagall was, even she forgot to tell him how to get onto the platform. Luckily, Harry knew a family of redheads that would be happy to help.

The wizard flopped back on his bed, a wide grin taking over the bottom half of his face. Hermione. Ron. Neville. Ginny. Luna. He couldn’t wait to see his friends again. He didn’t even consider it an unfair advantage that he already knew them better than they knew him. Or even themselves. It would only make it that much easier for him to connect with them.

Harry saw no reason not to use his dream of the future to his advantage, because there honestly were some parts he would be glad not to relive. Sirius’ death was at the top of that list. And breaking the Taboo on Riddle’s name which ended disastrously all around, with Hermione tortured and Dobby dead.

This time around, maybe he could become friends with Neville earlier. He hadn’t become close to the other boy until fifth year, really, when he stopped seemingly trembling at his own shadow. Neville had plenty of courage; he just needed to realize it.

Then next year would be Luna and Ginny. The brunet didn’t even want to think about the cluster fuck that was the chamber of secrets. His future memories argued that he let the events unfold unimpeded, that they were necessary for Ginny to develop into the woman she had been. The woman he had loved (and wasn’t that more than a little creepy at the moment? Harry was seventeen mentally and in love with a ten year old girl that hero worshipped him but had yet to meet. Did that make it even? Less creepy? Since she was in love with Harry without actually knowing him?) The other half of him wanted to spare her that pain.

But Harry would get back to that dilemma. He still had to get through his first year, which included Voldemort possessing Quirrell, Fluffy, Quidditch, the mirror, Snape, the stone, Malfoy, and incompetent Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers. And not necessarily in that order.

* * *

September first came quickly, the weeks flying by in a blur to Harry. He woke early that morning, triple checked the contents of his trunk, and prepared breakfast without being asked. Vernon looked rather green around the gills when he dragged his belongings downstairs, but didn’t say anything. He just picked up his keys from a little ceramic dish on the hall table and motioned for Harry to get in the car.

After a brief struggle to lift his trunk into the boot, they were off. His uncle surprised him by loading his trunk onto a trolley, but Harry didn’t question it. Given the way Vernon peeled out of the train station’s parking lot, he was probably just eager to be rid of him and helping him caused a small amount of pain compared to his happiness of not having to deal with Harry for ten months.

Green eyes scanned the swarming mass of people moving about the platforms, looking for the tell-tale red hair of the Weasley family.

“Come on, now! This way. This place is always packed with Muggles, of course. Hurry up now, or you’ll be late,” came the voice of Mrs. Weasley.

Harry turned towards it, catching sight of the woman who treated him like one of her own sons. She was short, plump, and kindly-looking, and like the rest of her brood, sporting flaming red hair. Ginny’s small hand was clasped firmly in one of her own and Harry had to wrench his gaze away from his future girlfriend because he was certain he was wearing a rather stupid look on his face.

He hung back as Percy, Fred, and George (and Merlin did it feel good to see Fred alive and joking with his twin) took a run at the barrier hiding Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he called out as soon as George’s foot vanished. “I don’t—could you tell me how to get onto the platform?”

Harry listened patiently as Mrs. Weasley explained and pushed him forward.

“Good luck,” Ginny said, smiling warmly, as he wheeled his trolley into place. Harry’s heart fluttered. He was going to cherish that smile, because the next time she saw him, Ginny was going to run out of the room.

When he came out on the other side, he didn’t bother to hide his grin. Before him was the gleaming scarlet engine belonging to the Hogwarts Express. In a couple of hours he’d be back at the castle.

Harry boarded the train, debating whether or not he’d get into trouble for using magic to levitate his trunk. Technically, he wasn’t in the Muggle world anymore, and it’s not like it was the end of the year when McGonagall handed out the notices reminding them that practicing magic over the summer was forbidden.

He located the compartment that he and his friends would essentially claim as theirs for the next seven years, when they actually rode the train anyway, and dragged his trunk inside.

“Need help with that?” Harry nodded to the twins who had entered behind him. “We saw you dragging that up that hallway,” George said.

“Looked rather heavy for a first year,” continued Fred. “Especially a scrawny one like you,” they finished at the same time, easily lifting his trunk up onto the overhead rack. “We’re Fred and George, by the way. Sometimes I’m Gred and he’s Forge,” George said by way of introduction.

“I’m Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry. Hope to see you in Gryffindor.” The twins were gone with a jaunty wave.

The train ride went exactly as Harry remembered. The Weasley twins brought Ron to him, although Harry was careful to keep the redhead from performing magic so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself using that joke spell on Scabbers when Hermione came by. It took a considerable amount of restraint not to just reach across and strangle the rat. He did offer to help Hermione look for Neville’s toad, but she rebuffed him by saying that she and Neville were enough because they had split up, going towards opposite ends of the train.

Overall, the only one who made a bad impression was Malfoy and his goons, and Harry was okay with that.

Harry disembarked when the conductor announced they had arrived at the station in Hogsmeade, leaving behind the luggage as instructed to be brought up later. He had intended to head straight towards where Hagrid should be waiting near the boats, but was distracted by the black skeletal horses pulling the carriages.

Being able to see the thestrals, with faces like a reptiles and black, leathery wings that resembled a bat’s, was new. He hadn’t been able to see them until Cedric had been killed, which, now that he thought about it, was rather odd, considering he had seen Voldemort murder his mother. Maybe seeing death wasn’t enough. Maybe he needed to be able to remember and understand it as well, to know that he had witnessed someone’s death.

Or maybe it was a mind over matter thing. Mentally, he had seen several people die. Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Wormtail, Dobby, and Fred. Thanks to his dream, Harry knew seven years’ worth of memories that he shouldn’t.

Either way, being able to see the normally invisible horses was unexpected. Harry knew that he couldn’t expect his future to be exactly as he had dreamed it, if only because he would give everything to change certain parts, and that he had already brought about changes, by writing to McGonagall, but he honestly didn’t think his memories would affect him like this.

Knowing that he would learn to cast nonverbally in six years wasn’t the same as being able to cast spells silently. Harry was certain that if he tried now he wouldn’t be able to make a feather float.

The brunet clambered into a boat after Ron, inordinately pleased that Hermione and Neville found their way into the same boat. He quietly introduced himself and asked if the boy had found his toad. Neville responded with a miserable no, but Harry smiled anyway.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

He would have said more, probably asking what house he wanted to be in, when Hagrid called for all the first years to duck. Harry twisted forward, not bothering to duck. The first years were much shorter than the friendly half-giant and the mossy vines they passed under weren’t long enough to graze the tops of their heads.

Instead, he glued his eyes on the looming figure of Hogwarts. The familiar sweeping towers and turrets that stretched towards the sky grew larger as they sailed across the inky darkness of the Black Lake. The sight of the magnificent seven story stone castle stole Harry’s breath.

This was the moment he had been waiting for. He was home again, finally.

Up in the Headmaster’s office, stood a number of curious silver instruments on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. Noticed only by the portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses, they ceased to move.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry drank in the stone walls as the first years followed Hagrid to the Entrance Hall where McGonagall would be waiting for him. It was just like he remembered. If he took the right turn instead of the left he would eventually wind up at the fruit painting that concealed the kitchens.

“The firs’ years, Professor.” Hagrid’s announcement broke Harry out of his revere. Her green eyes scanned the young faces before her, mouth twitching upwards ever so slightly when she spotted Harry in the crowd.

The Transfigurations professor gave her speech, introducing herself and the four houses, and warning them that their house was their family and that their actions would have consequences.

It was a powerful speech, but perhaps a little too much. Until fifth year, Harry couldn’t remember interacting with anyone outside his house. Not that his yearly adventures made it any easier for him. He never failed to turn at least one house against him before the winter holidays. This time, Harry was going to make the effort to make friends in other houses. He already had good ones in those who had joined the DA.

Professor McGonagall called for them to fall into line. Harry stood next to Ron, and two by two the first years entered the Great Hall which, after seven years, still dazzled him. The floating candles, the ceiling depicting the night sky. Even in a castle of magic, this room was magical.

McGonagall set down a four-legged stool in front of the stairs leading up to the teacher’s table. Harry grinned at the sight of the frayed Sorting Hat. This would be his fourth time wearing it, which was three more than every other student.

The Sorting Hat performed its song, received its applause, and then it was time Harry had been waiting for. He longed to be up in his four poster bed in Gryffindor tower.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” Professor McGonagall explained. “Abbot, Hannah!”

One by one the gaggle of first years dwindled, moving to join their houses. Much like Hermione had when it was her turn, Harry nearly raced to the stool.

“What do we have here?” the hat whispered in his ear. “I’ve not seen this before, Mr. Potter. A Gryffindor, were you? Yes, I see. Plenty of courage. I’ve never been wrong, Mr. Potter, but you did well in Gryffindor.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t thought the Sorting Hat would have access to those memories. Actually, he had never given much thought to how the Hat worked. He assumed that it could only read surface thoughts. He wondered if it was made with Legilimency.

_Are they . . . do you know if these memories are real?_

“Just because they are all in your head does not mean they are not real, Mr. Potter.”

Harry felt a stab of irritation. Why did he even bother asking the hat? It was just as cryptic as Dumbledore. He didn’t need proof that it could see those memories. He wanted confirmation that the seven years of memories were real.

“No need for anger, Mr. Potter. This is a unique experience for me as well. I do not have the answers you seek.”

The young boy wilted. _Right. Let’s get on with this then._

“Yes, where to put you?”

_What do you mean where to put me?_ Harry thought anxiously. _I’m a Gryffindor!_

“You have courage, yes,” the hat said. “But that is not all you are. Loyalty to those that are loyal to you and even those that are not. Not afraid of toil. A hard worker when it’s a matter of life and death.”

_But you took my wishes into account last time!_ Harry argued. Even Crabbe would have realized the Sorting Hat intended to put him into Hufflepuff. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the generally cheerful house, but they had their instances where they could be downright nasty when one of their badgers was slighted.

Harry supposed it would be nice to be part of a house that supported him wholeheartedly, because even some of the Gryffindors turned on him at one point, but he was a Gryffindor.

“I usually do give precedence to what the student wants, but I did that for you once already, Mr. Potter. This time, I shall sort you based on who you are not who you want to be.”

Harry was shocked by the hat’s response. What was wrong with wanting to be the Harry Potter in his memories?

“It is your choices that define you,” the hat parroted Dumbledore’s words from second year when Harry had asked the Headmaster if he really was anything like Riddle. “And what you want most right now, Mr. Potter, is to protect those you cherish. Good luck in HUFFLEPUFF!”

The murmurs and whispers that had become more pronounced the longer Harry perched on the stool were deafened by the eruption of cheers, clapping, cat-calling, and whistling from the tabled decked out in yellow and black.

Harry stumbled over to the Hufflepuff table, taking a seat next to Susan Bones. His new year mates goggled at him and several second and third years approached the end of the table to slap him on the back in congratulations. Dumbledore had to release a loud bang to restore order so the Sorting Ceremony could continue.

Dazed, Harry watched the rest of the sorting go as he remembered, the most notable person joining Huffleuff was Zacharias Smith, the boy who joined the DA even though he believed Harry to be a liar. Everyone else was sorted into the same house they had been in in his dream. Except for him.

Looking at the rest of the first years, Harry was struck by the fact that there were a few faces he didn’t recognize. Those he did were the ones who joined his secret and illegal not Umbridge approved defense group. Hannah Abbot, Susan Bones, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchly, Leanne, and Zacharias Smith. There were five others, three girls and two boys, that Harry had never learned the names of.

“You’re the first Hatstall Hogwarts has had in a while.”

Harry turned to the boy that had spoken, an upper year who had squeezed his way on the other side of the table next to Smith. He nearly had a heart attack when he found himself looking at Cedric’s face.

“A what?” He had been called a lot of things during his school years, but a Hatstall was a new one.

“Hatstall. Someone who’s sorting takes longer than five minutes,” the third year elaborated. “Bit of a surprise really. I think the whole school expected the Boy-Who-Lived to become a Gryffindor.”

So did he, Harry thought a little bitterly.

“Something wrong, Harry?”

“What? No. Nothing’s wrong.” He started scooping shepherd’s pie onto his plate to avoid looking at Diggory.

“You’re frowning. Unhappy being in Hufflepuff?” The words were said lightly, but there was an undercurrent that rang of defensiveness.

Well, he was, but Harry wasn’t about to say that. Instead he scrambled his brain for any excuse. He latched onto Boy-Who-Lived title that Diggory had used. “Don’t like being called the Boy-Who-Lived,” he said shortly. “It’s all anybody’s called me. Who’d wanted to be reminded their parents are dead all the time?”

It was rather manipulative, playing on Cedric’s sympathies like that, but a better alternative than explaining he knew he was supposed to be in Gryffindor because he dreamed it. That would see him locked up in the Saint Mungo’s equivalent of a psyche ward like Lockhart.

Cedric looked at him so woefully Harry would have thought it the older boy’s fault he was an orphan if he didn’t know better. Maybe he shouldn’t have played the I’m-famous-because-my-parents-are-dead card.

Cedric cleared his throat. “Well, welcome to Hufflepuff, Harry.”

The Welcoming Feast ended with Dumbledore conducting the school song. The Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables left first, having the furthest to go to get to their tower dormitories. In the Entrance Hall, Harry’s house split from the Slytherins, who descended into the dungeons.

A little excited now that they were heading to the common room, Harry followed the two fifth year prefects whose job it was to show them the way. The Hufflepuff common room was the only one Harry had never found or been into. The most he had heard were rumors that it was near the kitchens, which proved to be true when went down a flight of stone steps into a broad corridor that was brightly lit with torches and decorated with paintings of food.

They walked to the end of the corridor and the prefects paused in a shadowed corner on the right side were a pile of barrels were stacked. The female prefect Zoey stepped forward. “In order to enter the common room you have to tap the second barrel from the bottom.”

She pointed out the appropriate barrel in the middle of the second row. “You have to do it to the tune of Helga Hufflepuff.”

Her partner stepped forward to demonstrate. Tapping twice, pausing, and then tapping three times in quick succession. The lid of the barrel swung open, revealing a crawlspace.

“If the wrong barrel is tapped, or the wrong tune, there’s a rather nasty surprise waiting for you. Who wants to give it a try?”

The first years looked at Zoey uncertainly, then at each other when she remained unmoved. None of them wanted to find out what surprise the supposed to be friendly house had lurking for intruders.

Harry pushed his way to the front, withdrawing his holly wand. The hat might have decided he was more loyal and hardworking this time, but he had also said that Harry had courage in spades. He still did.

“Good man, Harry,” said Zoey when he reached her side. “Go ahead and tap the barrel next to it instead.”

Unhesitant, he tapped out the founders name on the wrong barrel. The second he finished the lid of the barrel blew off and he was drenched. Vinegar. He recognized the acidic scent.

The male prefect clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations! I’m prefect Gabriel Truman, and I’m delighted to welcome you to Hufflepuff House. Step on through.”

The twelve first years followed him into the common room. Harry, the first one to crawl in, took a quick look. Like the other three common rooms, it sported a lot of yellow and black furniture. There were also a lot of plants, but that was probably because their head of house was the Herbology professor. Harry also noticed a lot of circles. The doors he assumed led to the dormitories, the picture frames, the arrangement of furniture, the rugs, and the shape of the common room itself were all circular.

Harry liked it. It was earthy, low-ceiling, welcoming, warm, and sunny (despite it being night). There were lots of yellow hangings, burnished copper, and overstuffed sofas and armchairs upholstered in yellow and black, and circular windows that provided a vista of rippling grass and dandelions. The plants covered the window sills and hung from the ceiling.

His favorite part though, was the large, honey colored wooden mantelpiece above the fireplace that had badgers carved into it. Directly above it hung a picture that could only be of Helga Hufflepuff herself. Harry thought the entire common room was just very cozy and that the fireplace was a nice personal touch, one he hadn’t seen in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin.

"It is round and earthy and low-ceilinged; it always feels sunny, and its circular windows have a view of rippling grass and dandelions. There is a lot of burnished copper about the place, and many plants, which either hang from the ceiling or sit on the windowsills. Our Head of house, Professor Pomona Sprout, is Head of Herbology, and she brings the most interesting specimens (some of which dance and talk) to decorate our room – one reason why Hufflepuffs are often very good at Herbology. Our overstuffed sofas and chairs are upholstered in yellow and black, and our dormitories are reached through round doors in the walls of the common room. Copper lamps cast a warm light over our four-posters, all of which are covered in patchwork quilts, and copper bed warmers hang on the walls, should you have cold feet."

With that said, Gabriel showed the six boys to their dormitory. Their trunks were already placed at the foot of a bed. Harry ran a hand along the patchwork quilt blanket. It was yellow and black of course, depicting a badger, but it made the dormitory homier and not just the room he slept in for ten months of the year.

Harry stepped into the attach bathrooms for a shower, since he was still soaked in vinegar. He wondered if he could trick the twins into setting off that booby trap.

He fell asleep that night with a smile on his face, actually looking forward to being a ‘Puff. Harry didn’t even feel the slightest bit guilty for liking his new home.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry’s second first week at Hogwarts (if that made any sense) was different. Not just because he had a shorter distance to walk to reach the Great Hall now that his dorm was located in the Hufflepuff Basement. It would be pretty shameful if he forgot his way around the castle.

He still had trouble wrapping his head around the fact that he had memories of the future. Though, all things considered, Harry didn’t know what his dream was any more. It was no ordinary dream, that he was certain of, but clearly they also weren’t set in stone.

Harry had affected them once, by writing to McGonagall and requesting they send someone to help him find Diagon Alley. In fact, he found it encouraging that he could bring about changes in what he had dreamed. He hadn’t expected the Deputy Headmistress to show up in person. Of course, the most dramatic deviation from his memories was his sorting.

Hufflepuff. The house of the loyal and hardworking.

It wasn’t that Harry had a problem with the house. He didn’t have issues with any of the houses themselves. The students who made each one were another matter. But it wasn’t the one he wanted.

Not Gryffindor, as he had anticipated.

The Hat hadn’t helped. It could see the future memories, something Harry did not expect, and reacted to them. It wouldn’t say outright if they were real when the boy had asked, but took them into account when deciding on his house, saying it would not give Harry the choice this time because the Hat had already done so.

Was the Hat no denouncing them enough for Harry to continuing believing in them? Could they be believed, seeing as they were not set in stone?

Harry fervently hoped so. What good was the knowledge if he could not utilize it to make changes?

Ultimately, it mattered little how much he trusted his memories. So what if he was not a Gryffindor? What difference did his house make in the grand scheme of things? Voldemort cared not for what house he was sorted to. Only that Harry foretold his destruction, which meant the man fancied nothing more than Harry’s death.  Harry knew what lengths Voldemort was willing to go to in order to see the Boy-Who-Lived lifeless at his feet.

That, he decided, was all the really mattered. He could handle everything else, being in a different house and not having his friends, if it meant he could save them from pain in the future. The fiasco at the Ministry at the end of his fifth year came to mind. Not that Harry was going to fall for a trap like that again, but he wasn’t going to bring anyone along. There wasn’t any need to go at all, really, considering that Harry already knew the contents of the prophecy, and the act of not going would avert the whole problem.

Except that the Ministry then would never acknowledge Voldemort’s return because the Dark Lord wouldn’t drop by personally to deal with Harry.

What weighed most heavily on his mind was the war. So many lives needlessly lost. Yet, there was no feasible way to prevent it. Harry had no way to find and collect Voldemort’s horcruxes, and no means to destroy them. Fiendfyre was out of the question and what were the chances of Gryffindor’s sword coming to his aid when he was no longer a Gryffindor?

Harry pushed the negative thoughts to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to dwell on them. Or rather, he had six years to plan for the inevitable.

What was different were the stares that followed him through the corridors. Harry had been anticipating them. The eyes of the other students never left him the first time around and he had been on the receiving end of just about every stare there was. However, instead of awe and disbelief that Harry Potter had finally come to Hogwarts, he was met with skeptical faces of those that couldn’t believe the famous defeater of the Dark Lord was a Hufflepuff.

Harry did his best to put those out of mind too, what did it matter what the rest of the student population thought of him. He knew already that nothing he did would change their minds in the long run. They would believe whatever they wanted.

It was hard to do, though, when his own housemates were counted amongst them.

Wayne Hopkins and Luca Caruso, as Harry had learned were the names of the other two boys he now shared a dorm with, were a half-blood and muggleborn respectively. Luca’s lack of knowledge was quickly corrected, and he was just as agog as the rest of Hogwarts about Harry’s placement in Hufflepuff.

Determined to ignore it all, Harry diligently followed behind Gabriel Truman as the prefect lead the first years back through the basement and up to the Great Hall, gently reminding them that the prefects would assist them in getting to classes on time the first week, but they were expected to learn their way around quickly.

Nearly Headless Nick had always been helping to lend a hand to Gryffindor students when asked, but it wasn’t the same as the older students taking the initiative to see that the first years didn’t get lost. Harry was looking forward to having the support of his house behind him, since it was guaranteed that he’d alienate one house against him by the Christmas holidays.

Harry studiously tuned out everything but his breakfast, loading his plate with black pudding, baked beans, sausage, tomato, mushrooms, bacon, eggs and toast.

“That’s a lot of food for such a small person.”

He glanced up to half-heartedly tell whoever settled down next to him to stuff it, only to double check when he came face to face with grey eyes belonging to Cedric.

“Why are you sitting with me?” asked Harry pointedly. It wasn’t mandatory, but across the board, year groups tended to stick together, not mingle with those above or below.

Cedric paused his own food gathering, spoon full of hash hovering above his plate. “We Hufflepuffs like to pair a first year with an older student. The older student acts sort of like a mentor. If you need help with homework or if somebody’s giving you a hard time, come find me. I’ll sort it out.”

The last sentence was a promise. Harry raised a perplexed eyebrow, biting back his initial response of how he envisioned a fight breaking out over who got to mentor him. “Right,” he said flatly.

Thinking that Hufflepuffs were too kind, the brunet turned back to his meal. “About yesterday,” the third year continued, and Harry breathed in and exhaled in measured breaths to keep from snapping, “I wanted to apologize. I should have thought about what the title meant for you.”

 _Why should you have? It’s not like anyone else did,_ Harry thought uncharitably. No one bothered to look beyond the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. “It’s fine.”

“If you’re certain,” Cedric’s tone was dubious. “Anyway, you’re first class is going to be History of Magic. It’s always been that way for our house.”

Harry groaned, forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to know how despised the only class taught by a ghost was. He was sure only Snape’s class was more disliked, although an argument could be made for DADA when Umbridge was teaching.

Cedric gifted him with an amused twitch of his lips, “I recommend just reading the book on your own time. And don’t waste too much time on Binns’ essays. I’m not sure how he manages to grade them, because he’s not a poltergeist, but he does it based on length. If you meet his requirement you’ll earn an E.

“That’s for Exceeds Expectations,” he continued before Harry could comment. “Only grade better is Outstanding.

Seeing no other options, as Cedric was not going to go away any time soon, Harry chatted politely, keeping his questions focused on Hufflepuff, learning that his house had not one the house cup in eleven years and that Slytherin had it the last six years running, and generally what to expect around Hogwarts.

He received a speech that sounded well practiced and was quickly summed up as, “The other three houses look down on us, thinking us a bunch of duffers. Don’t worry about them. Just do your best. The snakes will most likely leave you alone because Hufflepuffs are beneath their notice. They really reserve their quarrels for Gryffindors.”

Harry caught the side glance aimed at him when Cedric said the Slytherins should leave him be. Even without his visible concern Harry knew it might as well be one of Trelawney’s predictions. There would be an endless tirade of snide comments thrown his way, giving voice to why they though the Boy-Who-Lived was a Hufflepuff.

He wondered if he would face this kind of scrutiny if he had been sorted into Ravenclaw.

Midway through breakfast Professor Sprout started handing out schedules. It was a slow process as the woman took the time to speak with each student, and of course there was extra consideration given to the sixth years deciding which N.E.W.T. classes they wished to take.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” she said cheerfully when it was his turn, “and welcome to Hufflepuff.”

“Thanks,” he replied honestly. Harry might have expected to be decked in red and gold, but he wasn’t displeased with Hufflepuff.

She tapped her wand to a blank sheet of parchment, and the details of his schedule filled themselves in. He blinked at it several times. It was almost as bad as his fifth year.  Monday mornings confirmed what Cedric had already told him. First class after breakfast was History of Magic, shared with all the houses, followed by Defense Against the Dark Arts after lunch with the Ravenclaws. Tuesday saw Transfiguration and Potions, with Gryffindors and Ravenclaws respectively. Wednesday he had Herbology with all the houses, and Charms with Slytherins, and Astronomy at midnight, again shared by all four houses. Then Defense and Transfiguration on Thursday, and the week finished with Potions and Charms on Friday.

Binns and Quirrell on Mondays. Harry groaned.

“Bad luck, mate,” Cedric said solemnly, having looked when the first year threw his schedule down on the table, disgusted. “Quirrell used to be the Muggle Studies teacher. Don’t know why he wants to teach DADA. Position’s cursed. Maybe he’ll go back to his old post next year.”

History had been mind-numbingly dull. Harry was mentally counting down the days until he could drop that class. Five years of nothing but goblins and their wars with wizards, lectured in the ghost’s monotone should be classified as torture. But, since Binns had the homework assignment listed on the board, Harry spent the class time reading the chapter and composing his essay, and generally ignoring the awestruck look on Luca Caruso’s face that was a permanent fixture since Harry dropped his bag on the desk next to him.

Defense had been curious. Quirrell had noticeably paused during the roll call after he reached Harry’s name, eyes raking over him before hurrying to call the rest of the names, and Harry struggled not to glare at the back of his turban every time he wrote something on the board.

The most notable moment all week was, not unsurprisingly, Potions. Snape’s black eyes bore into him from the moment he stepped foot in the classroom, and the sneer Harry had come to associate with the professor whenever Harry was involved twisted his face. But he wasn’t called on to answer questions he couldn’t have the answers to unless he was Hermione, and Snape didn’t breath a word about his father. All in all, it had been weird to not have Snape spreading vitriol about James Potter and docking points like one gave out candy on Halloween.

Whispers had followed him all week. Harry only found reprieve from them in the Great Hall, where the noise level was so loud you could only make out what those sitting near you were saying, and in the common room. Maybe Cedric had passed along a message, being the only person Harry spent a consistent amount of time with, and only because the older boy insisted that it was his responsibility to be available to Harry should he need help and to look out for him, but not one of his housemates had brought up the Boy-Who-Lived within his hearing.

On Thursday, Professor Sprout took the time to see how the first years were settling in. Mostly, she wanted to ascertain that they were handling the transition well and encourage them to seek out help when they needed it. Her office was always open should they need a comforting ear and her students were always welcomed in the greenhouse.

Harry was surprised by how he fit in in Hufflepuff. He hadn’t really made friends out of his year mates yet, though he didn’t think he’d ever call Zacharias Smith a friend. The blond boy was full of himself, and Harry might go as far as to swear that he joined the DA hoping to witness Harry trip up and make a fool of himself trying to teach other students or catch him out in a lie.

But they would come with time. Maybe it was for the better if they thought him reclusive. Given that loyalty was one of the traits lauded by Hufflepuffs and one the adhered to, any friends he did make amongst them would want to stand beside him, and with all the dangers he knew lying in wait in his future, it wasn’t fair to ask that of them.

* * *

Harry dreamed that night.

Fire sprang into existence, hot and crackling and twisting. Muted screams reached his ears. A head of blonde hair was lit ablaze, strongly smelling of sulfur.

When Harry woke on Friday morning, he didn’t remember the dream, and credited the slight feeling of unease to rounding out his week with the one teacher that hated him most.

 


	7. Chapter 7

When Cedric asked why he was more asleep then awake the next morning at breakfast, because the third year knew that Harry had not had Astronomy the previous night, and thank Merlin and Morgana for that. Snape was a right bastard when it came to trying to watch over twenty cauldrons simultaneously and prevent students from blowing them up. His fury if he had to deal with sleep deprived Hufflepuffs would be worthy of epic poetry.

Harry claimed he had been too nervous and excited to sleep much.

There was no point in telling the older boy about the dream he had forgotten until he saw Malfoy’s white-blond hair out of the corner of his eye. It was a nightmare, brought on by his memories of the Room of Requirement burning in a blaze of Fiendfyre, and he had learnt to deal with those over the years.

“Well, you best stop daydreaming and hurry up and finish your meal,” Cedric advised while he ate at a leisurely pace. “You don’t want to be late for Snape’s class.”

Harry was of mixed emotions where his least favorite (yes, it even beat out the always dull History of Magic because he could at least sleep during Binns’ lectures and not lose house points) class was concerned. Knowing what was to come didn’t make him any more prepared, and the class was certain to go differently since he had been sorted into a different house.

Not even Snape could think a Hufflepuff arrogant. Well, Zacharias might be the exception. The blond could be quite full of himself sometimes.

Harry honestly didn’t think it would make a difference in his case. The Potions Master hated Hufflepuffs almost as much as he did Gryffindors, and that hatred was only eclipsed by his hatred of James Potter, and the Boy-Who-Lived bore a striking resemblance to his deceased father.

Once more the young boy found himself thinking that Snape was old enough to forget school-aged grudges and not crucify Harry for the perceived sins of his father.

The first years cloaked in yellow and black left the Great Hall as a group, winding their way down through the castle’s dungeons to the Potions classroom. The Ravenclaws were already waiting outside the door, noses buried in their textbooks.

Wednesday’s class had been theoretical. Snape had swooped about in a bad temper attempting to forcefully impart the necessary safety measures upon them. It was similar to his methods of teaching Occlumency, and the scared first years had not taken well to brute force.

The Potions Master had been surprisingly tame, two days previously. Harry suspected it was because he did not know what to make of a Hufflepuff Harry Potter. Not that it mattered to the greasy git. Not having gotten the reaction he anticipated and even wanted on Wednesday, Snape would provoke it out of him, because he was the only person who saw who Harry truly was, a spoil, arrogant brat just like his father and he would prove it using any means necessary. That was the man’s opinion of him in his dreams and he behaved accordingly.

Being left to wait in the corridor was not so bad, when it was Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. The two houses created by the female founders shared a closer bond than the lions and snake. Harry was actually looking forward to not constantly being jinxed by Slytherins or listening to Malfoy spout the latest about his father and his views on Muggle-borns.

Cloak billowing, a symbol Harry had come to associate with the Potions professor, Snape drawled coldly for them to enter and take their seats, giving him an unfathomable look as he did so, dark eyes boring into him not unlike a drill.

Harry avoided meeting his eyes. Every time he glanced at the man cloaked in black, he saw his final moments, begging to look into his mother’s eyes. That Harry had inherited the green orbs only served to intensify Snape’s hatred of him, for it pained him to see Lily’s eyes in James’s face, and if ducking his head and keeping a low profile meant Harry could skate through Potions with little hassle he would be a mildly competent Hufflepuff and Snape wouldn’t hover over his shoulder waiting to vanish his work for the day.

He took the stool next to Megan Jones. He figured the brunette girl was at least a Half-Blood, because she wasn’t avidly looking at the walls lined with ingredients in jars. If he wanted to stay off Snape’s radar, he couldn’t sit by Luca again, who wasn’t that bad when his adoration toned down. If the other boy’s cauldron exploded, Snape would blame him like he had with Neville.

The Potions classroom was the largest of them. It needed to be to fit twenty or more students and not crowd them. There were two lines of tables, empty of cauldrons currently. They would grab them from the cupboards when Snape allowed them to start brewing. The room was brightly lit, though given some of the disgusting creature parts preserved in the jars that line his walls, Harry wished it wasn’t.

“Today,” Snape’s silky, dangerous voice cut through the silence, “you will be brewing a simple Boil-Cure. I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making... I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.”

He waved his hand at the blackboard which he stood before, and the ingredient list and directions for the Boil-Cure were written upon its surface in an elegant scrawl. He wasted no movements, giving off the air of someone who had done the action a thousand times before.

With an imperative “begin,” the students were scrambling to fetch their cauldrons and the relatively short list of ingredients. This potion was chosen for first year students because the directions were simple and the brewing didn’t take more than a half hour.

Harry set up his station with ease, filling a cauldron two-thirds full with water and digging out his mortar and pestle so he could crush six snake fangs as the first step directed. He grinded the fangs to a fine powder and tipped them into the cauldron, stirring until it completely dissolved in the water.

Next was the elongated orange bulb, the Pungous Onion. It was appropriately named, Harry thought, as his eyes watered after the first slice.

“Slice those finer, Mr. Potter. Can you not read the instructions?”

Harry was startled when Snape’s voice came from over his shoulder. The hand holding his knife jerked, causing him to nick his forefinger. Holding his left hand close to ensure he didn’t drip blood onto his ingredients or tools, Harry grabbed his kit’s ever-damp cloth that was supposed to be for cleaning the silver knife between ingredients and pressed it against the cut.

“Give me that, Potter.” Snape’s hand lashed out, fingers curling around his wrist like a steel trap.

“Wha—Professor, wait a minute.”

Snape raise his wand in a familiar pattern. It took Harry a minute to place it. He had seen Madame Pomfrey perform it several times. Recognizing it as a healing spell, the young boy relaxed. The cut on his finger sealed.

“Try to be more aware in the future, Mr. Potter.” With a dark smirk, because the git knew it was his fault that Harry had nicked himself, the Potions Master swept to the other side of the room to criticize Mandy Brocklehurst.

“Ignore him,” whispered Megan. “Just slice a little thinner and your onion’ll be fine.”

Would that he could, but even when he wasn’t in a towering mood, Snape’s presence was difficult to ignore. Instead, Harry chose to focus on his benchmate’s advice. “You good at potions?”

Megan answered with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I like potions. It’s amazing how you can add bits and pieces of plants and creatures and create something that didn’t exist before. Antidotes, inducing hysteria, love potions, growing bones. The possibilities are endless.”

Harry glanced at the girl, who was focused on her own brewing, surprised by the awe in her voice. He didn’t see potions that way. Probably because of Snape’s influence. It was hard to enjoy making potions when the man used the biweekly lessons as a means to torment him and dock points for breathing.

“Yeah, I guess they can do a lot of things.”

“Potter! Stopping chatting and get back to work. That’s five points you’ve lost for Hufflepuff,” Snape barked.

Harry sighed, picking up his silver knife while Megan shot him an apologetic glance. It wasn’t her fault that Snape was such a bastard. It seemed even changing houses wasn’t enough to curb the dour man’s tendency to take points from him.

Returning to his Pungous Onion, Harry took care to make thinner slices as his housemate had advised, and gently placed them in the cauldron. Hermione had given him many a lectures on how he couldn’t just toss everything he cut up into the cauldron, explaining that the method in which an ingredient was added affected its potency and dissolution into the potion.

Then he manually lit a fire beneath the cauldron. When the mixture was boiling, he had a palm full of dried nettles, quickly followed by three drops of Flobberworm Mucus. Harry stirred vigorously to disperse both the nettles and the mucus, the liquid slowly taking on a green tint.

The next ingredient was powdered ginger root, so he had to rinse and dry his mortar in order to crush the root, which he proceeded to sprinkle atop the potion, stirring afterwards. The sixth step called for six pickled Shrake spines, added whole, and then Harry had to stir gently so as to not overexcite them. Or so his book said. Given that the cauldron melted if left on the fire when the porcupine quills were added, he wasn’t interested in what overexcited Shrake spines would do.

Harry read the next step four times to make sure it was actually saying what he thought. When the words didn’t change he turned towards Megan. “What’s a glug?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“It’s equivalent to a tablespoon.”

Harry nodded. He could eyeball a tablespoon of stewed horned slugs after all of the cooking he had done for his relatives. Once that was done, he snuffed out the fire and completely removed the cauldron from the heat altogether, letting it set on a second tripod while he counted out two porcupine quills and trimmed the ends.

In the interests of not melting his cauldron and giving him a vicious set of boils, Harry cautiously counted to ten before added the quills. He stirred five times in a clockwise direction, and was pleased when the tell-tale pink smoke was emitted, showing that he was done and had brewed it correctly.

Pleased with himself for brewing a potion well, Harry bottled the now blue-green potion and labelled it with his name and the date. There was a small collection of crystal phials on the professor’s desk, one belonging to Megan and two from Terry Boot and Lisa Turpin.

Aside from the incident where Snape startled him and he cut himself, it had been a rather tame Potions class, something which Harry was grateful for. If today was an example of what he was capable of when he didn’t have Snape hovering over his shoulder waiting for an opportunity to loudly remark how he was a dunderhead, he might actually come to enjoy potions.

Karma must have heard him, for it was that moment that Hannah Abbot shrieked loudly, leaping away from her cauldron. Unfortunately for Wayne Hopkins sitting behind her, she crashed into his cauldron.

The reason for her outburst was obvious. Her hair had caught fire.

Snape descended upon the girl in an instant, putting out the flames with a controlled burst of water from his wand. It was hard to tell, but Harry rather thought the poor girl was in tears.

“Foolish girl!” he snapped, as Hannah inspected her hair, checking to see for herself that it was out. “Have you no common sense? Why didn’t you tie your hair back?”

At this point the blonde was definitely crying. “I . . . I didn’t think I would catch on fire.”

“Not thinking is common place of Hufflepuffs. Five points for endangering everyone in the classroom.”

Said classroom, out of respect for the distraught Hufflepuff girl, or to prevent Snape from shouting at them next for dawdling, went back to their work. Hannah apologized profusely to Wayne for knocking over his cauldron, and they both started anew, seeing as there were still thirty-three minutes left until the end of class.

All the remained of the spectacle was the distinct smell of burnt hair, smelling strongly of sulfur.

Realization hit Harry like a Bludger to the gut. He had thought his dream last night had been of Malfoy, even though he hadn’t been burned by the Fiendfyre, but what if it was Hannah instead? He had assumed his dreams were more than just dreams, entertaining the idea that they were foretelling him of events that could be changed. The Sorting agreed somewhat on the matter, essentially saying they were real if Harry believed in them.

But what did that mean for Harry? What were his dreams actually? Visions of the future? He knew Seers existed. Professor Trelawney was one, although her everyday predictions were as full of holes as there were centaurs in the Forbidden Forest.

Well, there was only one thing for it, he thought, as Snape informed them of their homework assignment, a ten-inch essay brewing procedures and the potential dangers they presented.

Like Hermione was always saying, when in doubt, visit the library.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start by saying thanks for all of your kind words. Your support has been just amazing. Even though I failed to recover my flash drive, I found myself wanting to write again. In a way, losing everything helped me get past my writer’s block because I was no longer trying to force certain plot points. So this is for everyone that encouraged me, and may my muse not go anywhere.
> 
> Parts of the italicized text was borrowed directly from Wikipedia, potterwikia, and other internet sites.

Under the pretense of having forgotten which class he had after lunch on Fridays, Harry’s eyes flicked over his schedule. Being only a first year, he didn’t have double periods in any subject. As it was, most students had issues concentrating on a lecture for half an hour. First and second years had it easy, having the lightest class load. In O.W.L and N.E.W.T years, classes were typically held biweekly and were often double lessons. He would have the time between Charms and dinner to visit the library, but all the Ravenclaws and Hermione favored that hour.

The raven haired wizard debated going on the weekend, but wavered. Would it be considered uncharacteristic of him to voluntarily self-study on a Saturday? He supposed not. It wasn’t as if the populace of Hogwarts knew his habits, so they wouldn’t be looking at him oddly and whispering where they thought he couldn’t hear.

Harry grimaced. The other students actually might stare, but only because he was the Boy-Who-Lived. A week in and their eyes still followed him. Worse, at this point, no one cared about being overheard. He was constantly approached by those wanting to get a close look at the famous scar upon his brow.

“To the library, Ronald!”

Harry winced, feeling sorry for the boy who had been ( _would be?_ ) his best friend at one point, watching as his tell-tale flush crawled up his neck, coloring Ron’s check as bright red as his hair. Ron lost his chance to retort though, as Hermione had already flounced between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, bushy hair bouncing madly at her quick pace.

He seemed to be the only one to have paid any attention to that interaction. Oddly enough, it reminded Harry of when the three of them had gathered the prospective members of Dumbledore’s Army in the Hog’s Head and Mundungus dressy as the creepily watchful witch. Remus had advised them to hold the next secret meeting in the Three Broomsticks, as the usual loudness and chaos would make them harder to overhear, and that a bunch of teens meeting there on the weekends wouldn’t look out of place.

* * *

Remus had always given him good advice, so Harry split from his fellow Hufflepuffs on the staircases, heading up towards the library. Luca had made a move to follow him, likely assuming his fellow Hufflepuff meant to start on the essays they had been assigned that day by Snape and Flitwick. Ernie tugged him along, loudly exclaiming that his mother had sent him a box of candy that morning and graciously offered to share hit with his house mates because it was a crime to have never eaten a peppermint toad.

Upon seeing the tall rows of books, some of which were moving freely about and drifting between the shelves, Harry felt lost and overwhelmed. Where was he supposed to start? He couldn’t recall if there was a divination section. Honestly, he had had a hard enough time navigating the vast array of tomes to find books for his essays. Luckily for his grades then, Hermione pulled anything and everything that related to the topic and then some.

Harry was loathed to ask Madam Pince. The older woman simply wasn’t approachable. Her beady eyes saw every mistreatment of her precious books. Not even Hermione went unwatched in her domain.

And quite frankly, he didn’t want to draw any more attention his unusual dreams.

Before the arrival of his Hogwarts letter, Harry had and would have continued, to chalk the visions of learning spells and having friends of his own up to the fantastical dreams of a lonely, ignored boy living in the cupboard under the stairs with too much repressed imagination and curiosity. But Professor McGonagall had come and waved her wand, proving magic truly did exist, and Harry was still having prophetic dreams.

He hadn’t know what to expect, even less so than Hermione since the Dursleys were extremely thorough in keeping fantasy stories, movies, and games out of Number 4 Privet Drive. But Trelawney’s style of teaching was far too dramatic for his tastes. To be fair, most of his hatred for Divination stemmed from the fact the batty woman was always predicting his death, which was rather insensitive when he had been forced to compete in the tournament and had a mass murderer freshly escaped from Azkaban after him. The rest came from the two real prophecies she had spoken, both of which had caused Harry untold suffering.

He and Ron had long since given up on Divination by the time Trelawney handed out the dream journals. They put more effort into imaging thirty increasingly traumatic misfortunes, more than half involved foretelling their own deaths, than if they actually wrote and interpreted a few symbols of their dreams.

For lack of other options the raven haired boy was willing to pursue, he set down the stacks. He stumbled upon the Divination texts shortly, and was surprised to see eight rows of brightly colored books. Honestly, Harry hadn’t expected there to be more than a dozen texts. Divination was a branch of magic where you had the gift or you didn’t.

Harry pulled books at random and hauled them to the nearest empty table. He opened the first one, flicking to the table of contents. It did him no good, as he recognized none of the words. Flipping through, he spied several detailed pictures of fish depicting methods of rolling bones and burning the guts. Mildly disturbed, he set aside that book. The next book was about tarot cards and the third heptomology. Apparently there was a whole field of Divination devoted to the magic of the number seven. Harry idly wondered if this book had given Tom the idea to create seven Horcruxes.

The next several books were duds as well. One was written in that old Shakespearean style of English. He’d come back to that one if he got desperate. Harry violently slammed shut the fifth text, earning a scowled “Mr. Potter!” from the librarian, which debated theories of where a seer’s ability to prophesize the future came from, dearly hoping his dreams weren’t his Inner Eye. None of his housemates had ribbed him for talking in his sleep, so Harry could only assume that he didn’t speak prophecies like Trelawney. Or all the boys in his dorm were deep sleepers.

Green eyes blinked at the eighth book’s familiar cover; a leather-bound copy of _The Dream Oracle_. Eager, he tugged the book closer. The fifth year text started with an introduction.

_Dream interpretation, also known as oneiromancy, is a most important means of divination that involves analyzing dreams._ _The word oneiromancy comes from the Greek root oneiros, meaning "dream," and mancy, meaning "prophecy". Long ago, it was thought that dreams contained important information, and/ or predict the future which sometimes they did, but often in a hidden form. It is one of the oldest forms of divination. Dream interpreters were often hired by royalty . . ._

_People appear to believe dreams are particularly meaningful: they assign more meaning to dreams than to similar waking thoughts. However, people do not attribute equal importance to all dreams. People appear to use motivated reasoning when interpreting their dreams. They are more likely to view dreams confirming their waking beliefs and desires to be more meaningful than dreams that contradict their waking beliefs and desires . . ._

He skipped the rest of the introduction, figuring it would only contain more history and origin information. Dream interprets didn’t seem to have their own dreams of future events. They were just called upon to explain the meaning of someone else’s dreams. Harry was more interested in finding a paragraph that explained how to recognize if his dreams actually were predictions of the future.

One line, _Seeing the unseen in the past, present, or future,_ caught the preteen’s interest. He wasn’t aware that his dreams could see more than the future. His heart clenched at the idea of seeing his parents outside of a pensieve or photos.

Harry read steadily, taking time to digest every word. He didn’t want to miss his answer because he was skimming for specific key words. According to Inigo Imago, there were two types of dream seers: Lucid Dreamers and Precognitive Dreamers.

_A Lucid Dream is a dream in which the dreamer knows that they are dreaming, and can control their own actions, and to some extent with practice, the events, content, and duration of the dream. Precognitive Dreaming is the ability to see the future through dreams. In order to see and dream the future, this ability requires the user to be unconscious. It is not known, however, if the user can activate this ability at will._

_The dreams, as dreams tend to be, are open to interpretation. There appear to be more often than not slight differences between the dream and the actual events. Whether this is related to dreams not being entirely literal, the future constantly changing, how far in the future the events take place, or simply a natural consequence of the power is unknown. At the same time the dreams can be very accurate in relation to actual events._

So basically, Harry summed, not even practitioners of Divination knew much about how dream seers operated. He bit back a sigh. He was looking at trial and error to learning which type of dream seer he was. He certainly wasn’t having lucid dreams, but the young wizard wondered if, with enough practice, he could control which past and future events he saw.

Harry flicked through the second half of _The Dream Oracle,_ green orbs picking out any interesting tidbits. Like muggles claims of déjà vu may be the result of having squibs in their family tree. Their touch of magic wasn’t enough to attend Hogwarts, but it gave them the strong feeling that they had already experienced an event. Also, as his magic matured, he would progress from seeing disjointed bits and pieces to witnessing entire scenes.

He was uncomfortably reminded of his visions of Voldemort, but he pushed the unease away, reminding himself that his connection to the Dark Lord came as a result of carrying part of his soul.

Magical maturity was a new concept to him, unless the author was indirectly referring to when a wizard turned seventeen and came of age in the wizarding society.

With a flick of his wand, Harry cast a Tempus charm. The blue numbers hovering about his wand tip told him he had eighteen minutes until dinner. What little research he had managed so far was likely all the relevant information that the library had on his dreams. And as Harry wasn’t willing to discuss them with Professor Trelawney, it would have to do.

* * *

“Did you finish your homework already, Harry?” asked Susan as he sank onto the bench across from her.

“Huh?”

The young girl shrugged. “I noticed you write your essays the day their assigned, and you were heading towards the library after Charms.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t realized he was completing his homework the day it was handed out. He had decided take his education seriously this time. His lazy attitude towards his school work in his dreams had resulted in a woefully unprepared Harry when he ran head first into danger.

“I don’t see any reason to wait. I find them easier to write when it’s fresh in my mind,” he replied, not actually admitting he spent the last hour reading up on Divination theory.

“In that case, do you want to join us in searching for the kitchen tonight,” Hannah offered.

“The kitchen?” Harry’s voice was echoed by the rest of the Hufflepuff first years.

Susan delicately forked the smoked haddock into her mouth. “My auntie says it’s a Hufflepuff tradition, finding the kitchens. A record of which year finds it the fastest is kept somewhere in the common room.”

Interested, Zacharias leaned forward. “What do we get if we set a new record?”

“Don’t know. The current fifth years hold the record right now. You’d have to ask one of them.”

“Let’s do it,” Justin cheered. “Even if the reward sucks, I want to know where the kitchens are.”

Harry felt himself grinning. This was just what he needed. An adventure. Perhaps he would try and direct them away and see how long before they realized he was doing it on purpose.


End file.
